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Port Antonio was a gem in Jamaica. The tourists running away from the all-inclusive holidays, were heading there. Probably as fast as mongoose were crossing the roads of the island, challenging me to hit a pothole or taking their lives away. Along the road, the colours were so refulgent. The green of the palm trees contrasted perfectly with the pink bars where locals were simply enjoying looking at the cars passing by. Instantly I wonder what where they thinking of my horseless carriage or my recurrent greetings at every red light. Two hours later of exhilerating beauty, I reached the gate of my guest house. « Welcome to Port Antonio! » the man said, in a very strong voice which was odd once was coming from a short and very slim guy. Enough of assumptions, I thought to myself. His hair was full of dreadlocks and he had a colorful hat with red, green, black and gold stripes. He asked me to choose between two rooms. It was hard to decide, once I lost my attentiveness since Mario had put his marijuana a.k.a ganja behind his ear. While showing the mosquito net, I could only think how he wouldn’t burn his hair. When he turned the fan on, I thought that we would die with the smoke, at such a young age, or at least get incredibly stoned. Which some people say that can take you to heaven, anyway. Outside, the sun was setting while creating a huge cotton candy sky. One coconut tree, some banana and breadfruit trees. All of them seemed happily married sharing the same soil and the same roof. « Would you like to come for a vinyl music festival tonight? Only reggae! » At that moment, the jet lag was quickly brushed from my body and I instantly accepted. The place was bustling and I was not expecting such a big crowd of people. Everybody seemed entertained, either dancing, smoking or simply eating jerk chicken wrapped in tinfoil. And right in the middle of them, a lost Portuguese girl, trying to absorb it all, smelling the barbecue smoke, listening the satisfying tune and craving for Jamaican culture. The affability and warmth of that moment was quickly disrupted by Mario calling me « Come here, my friend! Meet my brothers and sisters » I initialized a conversation with Lennox. The appreciation that he had for his food convinced me that he had a good character. He had white dreadlocks hanging on top of his loose t-shirt and his worn out sandals cheekily revealed some sand in his feet. He told me that he was working in a beach bar and he invited me to visit him. On the next day, I went to Winnifred beach. The bar had the Jamaican flag painted and was blending perfectly with the blue of the Caribbean Sea. I was so happy because I was finally having the chance to know more about the Rastafarianism. Actually, that was my first question, « Is Rastafari, a religion or a movement? » He kindly answered that was a lifestyle. Seeing the curiosity stamped in my face he continued the explanation about Marcus Garvey, Haile Selassie I, the six-pointed star, his vegetarian diet and his ganja consumption. I was amazed of his conscientiousness way of sharing all of those things. He was not rushing, he was welcoming my curiosity and during the afternoon he kept planting that seed in my brain. I invited him to become my tour guide. He took me to bargain in the food market, to eat delicious callaloo patties and even to dive in the idyllic blue lagoon. He seemed so much in the present and taught me a lot. In the end of my Jamaican journey, I asked him to remember his young sister and thanked him for the endlessly irie feelings.